


Rivethead

by heathenpesticide



Category: Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Body Horror, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I haven't read any of the books or comics, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, probably not canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathenpesticide/pseuds/heathenpesticide
Summary: Despite the things that might have made any other new client uncomfortable - the vintage thrash-industrial decor, the dingy modified lab coat he wore complete with patch haphazardly safety-pinned to the back, the chair centered over a drain in the middle of the room that made it seem more like a medieval torture device with the perpetual blood stains underneath - somehow Adam figured he was qualified enough, even while standing in the middle of what looked like a scene ripped straight out of a pulp horror novel.





	1. Chapter One

The first time Adam met Vaclav Koller, the kid had been hunched over in a corner of his lab with a soldering iron and blasting Ministry at full volume.

Sensing another presence in the room, he'd abruptly straightened and turned around, a halo of wild hair framing a face obscured by flash goggles, and he shouted some unintelligible greeting over the noise before momentarily turning back to his work. It was the best as far as first impressions could go, really.

He was such a perfect caricature of the mad scientist archetype that it had actually coaxed a smile out of Adam - something he hadn't done in months. He'd initially been apprehensive about using the services of an "underground augmentation specialist" - he'd seen enough chop shops in Detroit to know it was best to avoid the horrors they offered - but this kid was as innocuous as one could get.

Despite the things that might have made any other new client uncomfortable - the vintage thrash-industrial decor, the dingy modified lab coat he wore complete with patch haphazardly safety-pinned to the back, the chair centered over a drain in the middle of the room that made it seem more like a medieval torture device with the perpetual blood stains underneath - somehow Adam figured he was qualified enough, even while standing in the middle of what looked like a scene ripped straight out of a pulp horror novel.

Perhaps it was because where most of the LIMB officials he'd dealt with in the past were stuffy clinical types who'd elected to become augmented simply because it was trendy and convenient at the time, here was another guy who didn't have a choice, who'd been augmented nearly his whole life, and still managed to make the most of it.

* * *

 

He'd worked for a LIMB clinic before the incident. Their dress code didn't take too kindly to his fashion sense, or his patchwork of self-modified augs. Just like any corporation wearing the sheep's clothing of healthcare, they were very meticulous about appearance, and liked their representatives to be _uniform_ in all aspects - and Koller didn't fit in too well with his motley of hardware taken from rival firms.

He'd been tolerated for the most part because of his aptitude with the rare stuff - _Those shiny charlatans were lost without me when their textbooks couldn't tell them how to calibrate obsolete hardware_ , he'd said, laughing it off as he smoothed down a dog-eared patch on his lab coat.

But then when the biochip recall happened, his tech savvy wasn't so appreciated.

Koller was never one to just accept things the way they were. There was always a _Why?_ attached to everything he was told, always questioning the source of information. It was an engineer thing, that intrinsic curiosity to know how things worked.

So when the 'glitches' happened with little warning or explanation, and the 'replacement' appearing on the market a little too conveniently soon, it raised a lot of red flags. His own employers wouldn't even allow him to take a look at an isolated biochip - it was either _replace it or don't_ at your own risk, without even so much as a printed rundown of the bugfixes and improvements.

Grudgingly, he'd taken the replacement. The moment he got home - _Christ, he'd lived on Hlavni back then, back when augs were allowed to have some semblance of nice things and the income to pay for them_ \- after coaxing his courage out of a bottle of vodka and with the help of a liberal use of painkillers, strategically arranged mirrors, tweezers, and a scalpel, he dug around for the goddamn thing himself and ran a diagnostic.

Several levels of encryption and a notable amount of blood loss later, Koller was able to successfully datamine the replacement.

What he found wasn't exactly comforting.

With trembling hands and waning strength, squinting through the blood dripping into his eyes and the lethargic fog of Vicodin, he yanked the thing out of his head, immediately rendering his limbs dead weight. The chip landed on the white tile with a sickeningly wet sound, spattering blood and organic material across his bathroom floor just before his world went black.

His next lucid moment was of a sheet of purple hair cascading into his line of sight, his friend Patty's frantic voice coaxing him back as she leaned over him and gingerly turned him onto his back. His cheekbone felt bruised from having faceplanted into the floor, and through his delirious panic and the unholy mother of all concussions, all he could do was repeat " _It's corrupted._ "

He couldn't move. He could barely even speak. With the waning adrenaline of urgency, he'd managed to choke out one last warning: " _Destroy it_."

He'd fought against her as best he could, refused to go to a hospital until she'd smashed the gritty chip into the tile, and then it was a frightening cab ride to the nearest chop shop, bleeding all over the back seat while Patty kept shoving bribe money at the driver as he shouted back at them about his upholstery. They needed to find an old biochip, one from before the recall, because the doctors would just forcibly implant him with another new one.

The whole ordeal had nearly killed him.

In the moment, he'd felt a peaceful apathy toward that possibility. _Die now or die later, at least one of those options would be on my own terms_ , he thought as the oxygen mask descended upon his face.

He woke up some time later in a sterile hospital room, Patty's wild purple hair up in a messy top knot, blood staining the front of her shirt, her thick black eyeliner running down her face and creases on her cheek that suggested she'd slept hunched over at his bedside. She was too exhausted to slam him with the scolding diatribe she'd reserved for when he woke up, but the betrayed, haunted look in her eyes was enough. He'd mumbled out a drugged apology and told her he'd explain everything later.

Not long after that, a LIMB attorney delivered him his severance papers.

The fact that they'd gotten an attorney to do it spoke volumes. That they couldn't even wait until he was well enough to be released from the hospital was an added bonus. He'd been terminated on the grounds of misuse of LIMB property - even though it had been _inside his fucking body when he did it_ \- and that was when he found out about the convenient little clause in his contract that essentially rendered _his body_ their property once he'd agreed to work for them. Simply datamining the product while it was still in him was a glaring breach of contract, not to mention ripping it out of himself without direct permission from his employer. Even more damning was that had he openly refused the replacement, they would have forced him to comply anyway, or face immediate termination from the company.

He never had a choice.

It was a sobering moment, coming to the realization that the liberating strides mechanical augmentation was supposed to make for bodily autonomy meant absolutely nothing in the shadow of the company that owns you.

Koller's first instinct was to defend himself, to give the twitchy LIMB attorney proof of the design flaw he'd extracted from the replacement biochip, to _do the right thing_ _and save millions of augmented people from disaster_. He almost did it, too. He nearly let the drugs loosen his tongue, but somewhere beneath the thick cloud of drowsy inertia, the small tendrils of survival instinct uncoiled within him, accompanied by the faintest whisper in the back of his mind: _not a design flaw_.

 _Intentional_.

At best, his employers wouldn't believe him and they'd write him off as an unbalanced conspiracy theorist. At worst, they'd be in on the whole thing and he'd be _silenced_ for what he found out. Neither option left much room for successfully warning enough people to make even the remotest difference, so he merely took his severance papers in silence and got the hell out of that hospital the moment the drugs wore off.

He warned Patty and no one else.

And when the crisis would finally come, they'd find themselves huddled together in a cramped crawlspace, watching through the grates of a maintenance shaft as people ripped each other apart in the streets. Koller's terror would only be eclipsed by the guilt, the uncertainty of whether or not he could have actually done something. Discovering an elaborate conspiracy is absolutely useless when you're powerless to expose it. He'd held the knowledge to save millions and done nothing.

But that was the least of his worries.

He could only hope that there would be no one keeping track of the augmented who conspicuously weren't affected. Dissenters, people who refused to go with the herd - they were only ever revered by history for their courage, _eventually_ , but they rarely ever lived long enough to witness the fruits of their labors. He'd lived in anxious paranoia for weeks afterward, jolting out of nightmares of his name being crossed off of very short lists held by shadowy villains, always having him looking over his shoulder when he was awake, jumping at any noise.

His belongings dwindled away to almost nothing as he sold them off to keep the heat on, to barter for dissipating Nu-Poz supplies. No one would hire him. And with most of the augmented population wiped out or in hiding, even the chop shops were in no need of technicians. Racketeering ventures popped up everywhere, local police and Dvali alike controlling every product going in and out of the city. It was hard to tell whether law enforcement or organized gangs were the bigger criminals. He had to learn how to wean himself onto a limited supply and just deal with the pain.

It was just after the eviction notice was slapped to his door when a gaunt man in a suit worth more than Koller's former annual salary showed up on his doorstep.

The man had been disturbingly calm and poised, his voice pleasantly impassive and sophisticated, though everything about him screamed _dangerous_. Koller had been blinking in and out of withdrawal hallucination, blearily trying to focus as this man knelt down next to the dirty mattress he laid upon - by then it was the only furniture he had left - and reached down to stroke his hair with possessive tenderness. Koller had instinctively cringed away, but that movement alone had taken what was left of his strength, so all he could do was close his eyes and let that disingenuous, cold hand caress his temple.

The man said he had an _offer_ for him, and it was only fitting that as he said it, he produced a vial of Neuropozyne from his breast pocket with a dignified flourish.

Koller immediately recognized the tactic for what it was, even through the blinding pain of withdrawal - present a symbol of much needed relief while simultaneously offering a particularly unpalatable bargain to someone who'd fallen on hard times - the most reliable utility in making a person beholden to you indefinitely. Koller placed him for the thug that he was, and all he could do was clutch at his dingy blanket for some semblance of comfort as he suppressed a shudder.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said, his tone metered with just the right amount of polite apology. "My name is Radich Nikoladze."

Koller didn't even hesitate to think about it, didn't even bother with hearing the offer first.

His eyes fluttered shut as he extended his twitching mechanical fingers toward the vial.

* * *

 

Standing among the ruins of his bookstore, it's hard not to look back on that moment with bitter regret.

And Koller's not exactly one to dwell on regret. He doesn't make mistakes, he accepts dubious opportunities. He engages in learning experiences. But he does not make mistakes.  

But in this moment, as he looks helplessly upon the toppled cases, the broken shelves, the dusty scattered pages of limited editions strewn about like leaves unsettled in the wind - it's difficult not to imagine what his life might have been like if he'd just said _No_.

He wonders if he ever really had a choice, or if he'd merely been given the illusion of one.

And though he tries not to consciously think about it, he wonders exactly what he might possibly have done to have landed himself on the guy's radar in the first place, and for how long he'd been watched. It's unsettling to think that he had been that conspicuous, that he was that much of a notorious commodity that the esteemed boss came to collect him _himself_. Normally thugs and lackeys were sent for that sort of thing, the stuff of movies where a bag was thrown over your head, you were thrown into the back of a nondescript van, and then faceless couriers delivered you to the feet of an aristocratic gangster who couldn't even be bothered to step beyond the protection of his bulletproof glass house.

He wonders if it would have been easier if he'd just been left to die.

The pressure suddenly rises in his chest, his throat constricts, the burn aches in his sinuses and he most certainly _will not_ cry, especially not in front of _Jensen_ \- _why the hell did he even feel compelled to stick around anyway_? 

Koller is an opportunistic man, he's resilient, he's not the type to worry about things. And besides, the bookstore was just a front. Something that fell into his lap after the incident, one of many instances of easy real estate up for grabs when the previous tenants were unfortunately lost to the crisis. It would have been condemned and bulldozed otherwise, and his new... _arrangement_ with Nikoladze had granted him the resources to purchase it for a pittance and renovate it enough to make it hospitable. It was a convenience, and nothing else.

Still, he feels like he's lost a part of himself. It was a front, sure, but it was a _legitimate_ front. A proper business that had actual customers and employees. It was one of the last _normal_ things he had left in his life - a safety net of sorts, an illusion of domesticity and stability, something he'd never really had the privilege of knowing for most his life. And though he'd never admit it to anyone, he'd read a good portion of its books out of boredom and intellectual curiosity, to the point where he almost considered himself an accidental connoisseur.

Naturally, the place had been in bad shape when he'd first acquired it, but it was nothing like it is now. At least then, it was salvageable. Looking around now, he doesn't even know where to begin. The mere thought of picking up a single destroyed book makes him feel so helpless and fragile and powerless. It'd be futile amidst the daunting task of cleaning up the royal mess Otar's men made.

He kneels down and picks up a broken statuette of the Madonna holding the Christ child, makes some fruitless attempt at polishing it with the end of his dirty lab coat. He sucks his bottom lip into his teeth so Jensen doesn't see it tremble, then makes a show of returning the statuette to its pedestal.

Pointless. There are dozens of them around the shop as it is, little more than mass-produced novelty ornaments. He's just going through the motions right now, stalling with heedless gestures so he doesn't have to deal with the crushing reality that the damage is irreparable.

"Koller."

Jensen's voice has a perpetual husky nature to it - for Koller, it always invokes images of sand sifting through polished pebbles - but right now it's especially pronounced, soft and emphatic and seeming to envelop him in the yawning silence of the destroyed shop.

Koller doesn't respond right away. He recognizes the piercing sympathy in the tone, and he just knows that if he turns around and looks into Adam's face, he'll shatter. So he just stares at the Virgin and presses his lips together, unnecessarily reaching up to readjust the positioning of the statue.

"Koller," Adam says again, a little sharper this time.

He huffs softly through his nose. "Don't know why I'm so concerned for this thing," he says quietly, shrugging feebly as he forces a nervous chuckle. "I'm Jewish."

" _Václav_."

Oh, and he actually pronounces it _correctly_. Even Koller himself had started pronouncing it with the hard 'c' as a way of simplifying it for the influx of immigrants who seemed to struggle with it, and considering how rarely Adam ever calls him by his first name, this is one of those moments he can't keep pretending to ignore. He winces, still refusing to turn around as he feels Adam's body heat at his back.

"Come on, Jensen," he whispers, a pleading edge creeping into his voice. "Don't do that. Not right now. I can't..."

But then sleek synthetic fingers are dancing at his hip - _what is he even doing_? Jensen's never touched him before, especially not like this, never anything outside of a brief departing shoulder-pat - and Koller's being maneuvered around, pivoted on his heel by a single strong hand, and he instantly tilts his face downward so he doesn't have to look into the tragic expression he knows Adam is giving him.

"Hey. Come here." 

There's a pronounced tenderness there, tense and just beneath the surface of that metered, authoritative tone, so profound that it feels like a hand has reached within Koller's chest and _squeezed_ , and then sculpted polycarbonate arms are sliding around him, drawing him against a firm chest. The absolute shock of the impromptu embrace is fleeting, but it's quickly replaced by a tidal wave of emotion, and some dry gasp grates out of him as he plants his face firmly against Adam's heartbeat - strong and steady and easily perceptible even through the shield of his tactical vest. 

The gesture is unexpected, but not exactly unprecedented.

Their relationship had gone from tentative, to professional, to symbiotic, to some semblance of _friendly_ , with some weird perversion of intimacy lingering just beneath. Most notable was that Adam willingly entrusted Koller with his body while he was vulnerable - something he hadn't done since... _ever_ , really. That alone made Koller privy to some side of Adam no one else had really witnessed before. And it went without saying that Adam was particularly protective of his body, especially since he never quite felt like it was truly _his_ again.

Though that didn't stop Koller from spending a significant amount of time speculating, trying to figure the guy out. Wondering if he had a wife, a girlfriend...boyfriend, maybe? Perhaps someone he might have lost or left behind in the incident. Adam was never exactly forthcoming about his history, and Koller knew better than to pry. After a while, he came to the frustrating realization that he couldn't realistically envision the guy fucking _anyone_ , male or female. Jensen always seemed largely disinterested in intimacy and physical affection in general.

Though of course Koller had _dabbled_. He'd always been too lazy and dismissive to attach a label to his sexuality, he never felt it was necessary or relevant - but he sure did find himself attracted to beautiful personalities, regardless of the body that happened to be attached to them. As both an augmentation specialist and a human being, Koller found Jensen especially intriguing, but he was also mindful of boundaries, so he maintained a respectful distance. It was flattering enough that Jensen surrendered such trust to him in the first place.

But something changed between them when the Dvali tore up his shop, when Jensen answered his distress call, immediately and without question. Afterwards, he'd tried to hide his concern behind a facade of necessity, as if Koller was the only aug specialist in the city when Jensen's vast resources could have easily found him another one in the unfortunate event of Koller's death. He'd passed it off as a potential inconvenience -  _I don’t wanna have to identify your remains the next time I come in for a tune-up_ _._

Koller almost bought it, too. But when Jensen kept pressing him about it, _insisting_ , and Koller responded by bluntly addressing the inevitable outcome of parasitic relationships with exploitative crime bosses - _sometimes it’s better to sweep the ashes under the rug_ \- even the protective mirror of Jensen's shades couldn't hide the terror and concern in his expression at how dismissively Koller talked about the possibility of his own death.

Koller's solution at the time was to deflect with careless indifference, because it certainly wasn't something he wanted to deal with in the moment. He needed time to process this, to come to terms with the fact that Jensen might care a little more than he let on. In retrospect, it was hard not to notice the protective nature Jensen exhibited toward him, the way he kept coming around the shop when he didn't really need anything, when it was obvious he was just there to check up on him. It was almost as if...Jensen felt some deep connection with him and was entirely oblivious on how to appropriately express it.

A spontaneous embrace in the wreckage of his shop was a pretty good place to start.

It couldn't have come at a better time, really. House calls with Radich weren't always the most pleasant, and he'd had to tend to one immediately after almost being murdered in his own home. It certainly didn't help matters that the guy felt he was entitled to more than just Koller's services as an augmentation specialist, and typically he was left to cope with the hollow fragility that descended upon him in the aftermath all on his own. So it was nice, just being _held_ for once. To have someone there to hold him together before he fell apart.

So Koller lets go, finally lets himself relax, sagging in Adam's arms because he'd crumple into a heap on the floor if Adam didn't hold him up. _God, it feels good_. He suddenly realizes he's actually been waiting for this for quite some time. 

"Jensen...what are you doing?" he mumbles, immensely grateful for the physical contact but bewildered by it, nonetheless.

Adam doesn't answer at first. He just continues to embrace him, his hand coming up to absently cradle his head, and it's then that Koller notices that Adam is shaking. He's tense, his heartbeat is slightly elevated, he seems to be coming off of some personal trauma of his own and is in just as much need of this as he is. 

"Hey," Jensen says at length, and his voice is hoarse and strained. "When was the last time you slept? You look like you haven't seen a bed in days."

Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but why the hell does it sound so much like an invitation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a lengthy one-shot, but there was no way I'd have the whole thing finished in time for St. Vaclav Day, so this will be a two-parter. I may bump the rating up to explicit because there's a chance sexy times might happen. WHO KNOWS
> 
> HAPPY ST. VACLAV DAY
> 
>  
> 
> [peepoo](http://saintambrose.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooops this wasn't supposed to lapse for so long~~

It's an uncharacteristic and alien impulse, really. Jensen isn't a man typically inclined to affection. Being robbed of one's flesh tends to do that to a person, where something as trivial and easily underappreciated as _touch_ becomes a distant privilege. There isn't much point when you can't really _feel_ in the purest sense of the word.

But somewhere behind the curtain of avoidance and denial, Adam understands that on some small level, he's always been like this. Sex and intimacy were always something of a dreaded chore, things he engaged in merely to please various partners. In actuality, they were things he preferred to avoid. Reflecting on his relationship with Megan, it's not difficult to see where it fell apart.

Of course her dedication to her research and her career was certainly the most prominent force behind the wedge that ultimately drove them apart, but it was one of those instances where the relationship ran its course before it even began. It was one of many in a long string of instances where he'd mistaken his respect and admiration for romantic attraction, then complacently fell into a relationship because he felt it was expected of him, rather than because it was what he actually _wanted_.

In retrospect, he feels some subtle inclination of guilt and shame for all the times he made excuses to get out of any kind of intimacy. Migraines, exhaustion, nausea, pretending to be asleep - hell, he'd even faked a couple UTIs. At the time, it was second nature to him, glib responses of dismissive avoidance, a perpetual distracted state that would allow him some small grace period so he could keep putting off that...obligation. In hindsight, he can't help but cringe at how transparent he'd been, at how ashamed and emasculated and petty it makes him feel. How he feels he'd cheated her somehow, that he hadn't held up his part of the bargain and owed her something in return.

So it was something of a morbid convenience that what ended up happening to him turned out to be the ultimate excuse. An egregious breach of bodily autonomy seemed to be a pretty valid get-out-of-sex card that would never expire.

When he finally gathered up the stamina to search around inside himself and piece together how he felt about her in the aftermath, he came up with guilt, shame, remorse... _empathy_ , even. Surprisingly, there was never anger or contempt or hatred. He could at least marginally understand a lot of what motivated her actions and couldn't find it in him to condemn her for them.

But somewhere in the murky, indistinct wisps of memories of the attack and his distracted state of mind for the months following it, there's _something else_ \- something dark and poisonous that always kept him from reflecting too deeply on their relationship, because there was always a subconscious understanding of an unpleasant subtext that he wouldn't want to face. It took him months to put a name to it, to finally understand that what felt like a brackish, unguent shadow seeping within his rib cage when he thought about her was the lingering vestiges of _horror_.

Horror at the realization that, at some point during their relationship, in a casual dismissal of trust and consent, she'd gone out of her way to obtain his DNA for her research.

That it likely never occurred to her to just _ask_.

That she could never be bothered to even tell him what she found.

 _Horror_ at the understanding that a relationship to which he'd felt obligated from the very start could very much have been an elaborate ruse for the mere purpose of gaining access to his body.

Sometimes he finds himself recoiling any time he speculates on how she might have obtained the sample. Even something as innocuous as swiping a hair from his pillow still seems mildly disturbing to him, and he can't figure out why. He wonders if she knew from the beginning and just needed confirmation. If she'd intentionally pursued him for that very purpose and lured him in, perhaps even with the help of a CASIE mod, and exploited his habit of avoidance when it came to confronting his own emotions.

He'd at least felt very strongly about her in a platonic way. He'd always enjoyed her company, he still cared about her in some unique way, even if it wasn't romantically. But what about her? Did she ever genuinely care about him? Does she know he's alive?

 _Does she even care_?

Confronting her in that dreadfully sterile white room two years ago should have been an opportunity at closure, but all it does is haunt his memories when his thoughts are idle, echoes of unanswered questions keeping him awake at night.

His only relic of reassurance was a haphazardly forgotten ebook he'd found of her lab notes when he was investigating what happened to her --

_The thing is... I have to bury the truth. Not the discovery, but how I reached my results. It's become harder lately... I betrayed someone, someone I... respected, for the sake of my research._

_I wish I had a chance to fix it, but it got bigger than me... bigger than Sarif. If this ever came to light, Sarif industries could be ruined..._

He'd committed the entry to memory, imprinted the words in his mind and recited them in his head as a mantra of comfort, the only evidence he may ever have that even vaguely hinted he might not have been pursued simply for his body. There was some small comfort in the implication that her discovery came as a surprise, that it was all just a coincidence, that she had at least... _respected_ him. It was enough for him. He didn't really need her love or admiration, he just wanted to know that he hadn't been _used_.

And to think he'd almost made peace with the whole thing.

Until he discovered what was in that vault.

In his line of work, Adam's had to swallow a lot of bitter pills, to look the other way in disturbing, heinous cases, to understand that humans are inherently capable of despicable acts, that _bad things happen sometimes_ and there's nothing you can do about it. He likes to think he's become inured to the horrors the world of police work can offer.

But some things...some things stick with you, and you wonder if you'll ever recover.

He'd looked on with apathetic lack of surprise at evidence that Picus regularly tampered with broadcasts to systematically vilify augmented people and manipulate the public. He'd read emails that showed what rose from the ashes of Belltower's blatant war crimes was yet another corrupt PMC run by the same men who literally got away with murder, all with a detached sense of bored disinterest. He'd found the preliminary schematics for experimental augs _currently in his own body_ in the possession of the very firm that performed unethical experimentation on human test subjects and he'd merely shrugged it off, thinking, _Well, at least they're not malfunctioning_.

He'd been largely indifferent to those things because they were _expected_. They were characteristic crimes coming from the people who committed them.

What he _hadn't_ expected was the thing he saw in those crates.

And how could he? It was so absurd, so unpredictable, the implications of it bordered on barbaric. He couldn't even understand _what_ he saw, only that it had entirely blindsided him, made his vision blur at the edges, his equilibrium gone as he swallowed against the reflex to vomit. He'd composed himself pretty quickly, shoved it to the back of his mind and locked it away like he did with anything he found too difficult to confront.

But this was one of those things he couldn't bury, one of those things that would be stamped to the backs of his eyelids the next time he tried to sleep. He wanted to convince himself it was a hallucination, an illusion, a strangely vivid reflection, even though it stayed consistent from every angle he looked at it.

 _What the fuck was that thing_?

What did they intend to do with it?

 _Does Megan have any idea who she's working for_?

He shouldn't have looked in the first place. He shouldn't have even gone in that fucking vault, should never have agreed to Vega's outrageous plan. He should have just sided with his emotions and helped that Stanek woman instead. Now he'll forever be second-guessing himself, wondering if he'd made the right decision.

Christ, and he'd even been somewhat acquainted with Nomad, used to chat with the guy when he went into his shop for junk parts. He feels like he's let down a valuable ally, a fellow hobbyist, a _friend_ , even.

He might even have softened up the cops a little by giving them one less chore to clean up, and saved multiple lives in the process.

And that... _thing_ would just be another dirty little secret locked away in a box.

Ultimately, the gruesome discovery feels like more than mere betrayal. He feels like he's been systematically disassembled - mentally _and_ physically - by someone he'd trusted, and all that's left is a numb, hollow void inside, an inability to put a distinction or even a name to his emotions, and it makes him question if he's even still human.

It feels disturbingly similar to how he felt when he first woke up after having his body hijacked from him. As drugged and delirious as he was then, he still recalls everything with agonizing clarity --

 

> His nose itched. Of all the excruciating pain left from surgery, this small discomfort was what roused him from sedation.
> 
> He'd drowsily moved his arm, a reflexive waking reaction to balance himself against the swimming vertigo of lethargy. The limb felt different. Almost like it didn't really _feel_ at all. He figured he was still numb from painkillers, like his arm had gone to sleep and the circulation was just beginning to creep back. He couldn't feel the touch of air on his skin, but he had a vague awareness of _where_ his arm was, he could still sense the positioning of it in proximity to his body. He flexed his fingers, tried to get the blood flowing, but he couldn't exactly feel them either, at least not outside of a vague pressure as he moved the joints.
> 
> Blindly, he reached up to scratch at his nose, but rather than the graze of fingernails, he was met with hard, smooth resistance. Frustrated and still disoriented, he tried again, but this time he caught the faint, almost imperceptible mechanical whir of artificial joints.
> 
> His eyes snapped open and he jolted upright, distantly aware of the increased frantic beeping of the EKG monitor above him, and he'd gotten just enough time to catch a panicked glimpse of mechanical arms fused to his torso before a medic was rushing in to jab a needle into his hip.
> 
> His next lucid moment was the echo of a muffled female voice luring him back to wakefulness. He shifted uncomfortably amidst lingering sleep paralysis, forcing himself to the surface of that sluggish underwater illusion that accompanies heavy sedation. He shifted his legs, noticed the same dulled sensations there as he'd felt in his arms when he first woke up. He was naked with nothing but a sheet covering him from the waist down, and he could feel it grazing against him, realizing with muted horror that the touch of the fabric brushing against his skin ended at about mid-thigh.
> 
> _They'd taken his arms and his legs._
> 
> The woman was speaking again, mumbling platitudes at him probably, and she sounded as though she were speaking to him from the end of a very long tunnel. He could tell she was trying her best to make her tone comforting, but she only sounded manufactured and trite to him.
> 
> "It's okay," she said. "You're okay. Try to relax."
> 
> The words were empty and meaningless. It was not okay. He was not okay. He was only relaxed because the drugs were still making his brain a soupy, incoherent mess, dulling his emotions, making it impossible to think clearly enough to adequately reflect on his situation. _His arms and legs were gone_.
> 
> His nose still itched.
> 
> He tried to speak, but all that came out was an embarrassing, wispy croak. He took an experimental breath - Christ, even his fucking _lungs_ felt different - and tried again.
> 
> "Megan...?" he rasped.
> 
> The woman's face fell, she seemed caught off guard, as though she hadn't been prepared for him to ask about her so soon, or even be able to speak, for that matter. She pressed her lips firmly together before parroting again, "It's okay."
> 
> A swift breath gusted out of him, something between a wry laugh and a dry sob as his chest constricted at the obvious non-answer. It was clear how awkward she felt at being the one stuck with delivering the news, that this sort of thing usually wasn't her job. She didn't strike him as the type that dealt with people all that much. Or at least not conscious ones. He realized he probably woke up at an inconvenient time.
> 
> He didn't feel like a person. He felt more like a specimen prepped for vivisection, naked and on display like this, not even human enough to require the dignity of clothing. Objects like him couldn't feel shame or modesty. Those were things reserved for autonomous creatures. He didn't deserve those things.
> 
> The sheet was coarse and uncomfortable, a swathe of thick paper, and it did nothing to provide him with warmth. He felt cold, but didn't exactly have the luxury of drawing his arms around him for comfort or heat. He had less flesh now, _less blood_ , and he resigned to the tragic understanding that he'd probably always feel this perpetual chill.
> 
> "Can I just have more drugs?" he asked bitterly, pressing his head back into the pillow and staring emptily up at the ceiling.
> 
> She could at least do that. He blissfully closed his eyes as the needle sank into his hip.
> 
> Most of his convalescence was spent under heavy sedation. He wasn't sure it was much of an improvement - all it did was trap him in his nightmares, flashbacks of the attack, hallucinations of being fused back together on a cold operating table, the shrill pitch of the bone saw constantly startling him out of sleep with such urgency that he'd lashed out upon waking and destroyed the bedside lamp and his monitors on more than one occasion. The new arms were powerful. He found he was having a hard time controlling them, his nerves firing a little too quickly, with a little too much intensity at the slightest provocation, responding too eagerly to the smallest fluctuation of his emotions.
> 
> His entire recovery was a bevy of undignified and frustrating moments, things that only made him feel more and more dissociated from himself. The first time he woke up with the urgent need to relieve his bladder, he'd absently swung his legs over the side of the bed, then promptly crumpled to the floor the moment he attempted to put weight on them. The impact was heavy, graceless, an echo of hard superplastics hitting polished tile, as though someone had just dropped a heavy piece of machinery.
> 
> A cruel reminder that these weren't his legs anymore. He'd have to relearn how to use them, too. He'd nearly pissed himself in the process.
> 
> An orderly rushed in to help him, led him to the bathroom, held him up in front of the toilet. He wondered how satisfied the guy must have been in his job, relegated to helping grown men piss. There was that small inclination again that he wasn't entitled to humiliation. He dug around inside himself, searched desperately for that low gnaw of shame in his gut, but it wasn't there. That was one of those emotions reserved specifically for people with _bodies_.
> 
> He took note of the fact that the bathroom lacked a mirror.
> 
> He decided that he favored unconsciousness over dealing with the reality of what he'd become. He began to relish his scheduled doses of sedatives, even came to associate the stick of the needle with some warped version of pleasure. His heart would dance as the sheet was drawn back to expose his middle, breath hitching at the swipe of the antiseptic gauze, and he'd have to stifle a moan at the subtle pinch in his side, eyes fluttering shut at the cold, uncomfortable penetration of the drugs. During his rare moments of consciousness, he'd run his hardened fingers over the dusting of sore puncture marks, press his thumb into the bruising and hiss through his teeth at the fleeting pain, cherishing the ability just to _feel something_.
> 
> And then there were the feverish dreams of Megan.
> 
> Strangely enough, a lot of his dreams about her were remarkably vivid and explicit. He seemed to enjoy sex a lot more in his dreams than he ever did in real life.
> 
> He'd lain awake one night with detached curiosity at how his body might respond now, tentatively pressing his fingertips into his collarbone, his chest, his nipples, his ribs, still able to feel the pressure of resistance beneath his fingers, but coming to the grim realization that he'd never truly be able to identify _texture_ ever again. Something sour churned in his gut at the revelation, that a small comfort he never felt he had much use for was now gone forever. He missed it already.
> 
> He closed his eyes as his fingers crept down the plane of his stomach, a bored, idle fidgeting as his mind drifted into autopilot. He couldn't feel his flesh beneath his fingertips, but he was just able to distinguish the contours of his abdominal muscles, the divot of his navel. He circled his finger around it, teased his fingertip into it, tickling the sensitive skin of his belly until he shuddered and hissed through his teeth. The bumps rose on his flesh at the cold, alien touch, but it was accompanied by a distant, almost unfamiliar twinge in his groin.
> 
> He held onto the sensation, squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth as he focused all of his energy on it so it wouldn't slip away as it so often did. He'd almost forgotten what this felt like. It was a little invigorating, his heart thrumming heavily against his rib cage as his breathing slowed, the flush of arousal clawing up the insides of his thighs, his back arching involuntarily as he teased his hand lower down his stomach.
> 
> His fingers caught onto the sheet and he shoved it down in frustration, then slipped his hand beneath the waistband of the standard cotton undershorts he'd been given, the only article of clothing he was allowed. He sifted through his pubic hair, invoking the coarseness of it from memory and wishing he could still actually feel it, and then he flared his fingers out, sucking his bottom lip into his teeth as he traced the dip of his hipbones, the V at the junction of his thighs.
> 
> At least he still had this. At least this part of him was still _real_. He appreciated it so much, appreciated that this was still _his_ , that he could feel every touch down there, even if it was provided by cold, artificial fingers. His other hand crept back up to tease at his stomach again and he arched his hips up a little, let his legs fall open, then he frantically pushed the undershorts down over his swelling dick as he struggled to hold on to the lingering vestiges of dream-arousal.
> 
> Touching his cock with synthetic hands was about as unremarkable as he would have expected. The rudimentary artificial epidermis over his fingers and palms was more for practical reasons than sensory ones, and it really didn't come close to resembling real flesh. He wrapped his hand around himself, tested the pressure as he gradually tightened his grip and gave a slow, experimental pump. He was still getting used to his own strength, still learning how to gain control over the new limbs. He never imagined that something as simple as jerking off would join the long list of things he'd have to relearn.
> 
> He pumped himself again, a slow stroke with a small twist of his palm at the head, but the urge was draining already, slinking away from him like an apprehensive animal. He missed his flesh hands. He wished he'd done this more when he still had them. He couldn't even _remember_ the last time he did this, always likening it to as much of a chore as sex, an activity he only did if he was having trouble sleeping, or because he knew it was a generally healthy thing to do and that he was long overdue. Unfortunately, the touch of his synthetic fingers didn't exactly herald what he would call _pleasure_ , and he'd only managed to get himself half erect before the door to his room opened and the awkward woman with the drugs entered.
> 
> Normally, he might have been embarrassed at being caught. But with half his body with the Sarif logo on it, he couldn't exactly feel like it was his anymore, couldn't exactly feel like anything other than an object. A piece of flashy hardware. He released his already waning cock and casually snapped his undershorts back in place, allowing his fingers to recede to his stomach more out of respect for her inevitable discomfort than from shyness or humiliation.
> 
> Surprisingly, she took it in stride, completely unfazed. "Oh, my apologies," she said cordially. "I'll come back later."
> 
> "That's not necessary. Just making sure you guys didn't augment that too," he said dryly.
> 
> Jensen suddenly hated her sympathetic expression, the sudden reflex of defensiveness uncoiling within his chest. He knew what was coming.
> 
> "Impotence is common after something like this. We can give you - "
> 
> " _It's not impotence_ ," he snapped back, almost a little too aggressively.
> 
> That was a touchy subject for him. He'd been dismissed as _impotent_ before, when nothing could be further from the truth. He was as virile as any other man, his cock could get hard, just that his head was never in it. He got his thrills from other things. He always found it a little disturbing that people placed so much importance on sex that anyone who wasn't obsessively driven toward it was automatically labeled as sick or broken. He hated that.
> 
> He had half a mind to reach into his shorts and tug himself to an erection merely out of spite, but decided against it. That would be inappropriate. This woman meant no harm, he was just taking out his frustration in the wrong places.
> 
> Instead he just asked for more sedatives.
> 
> When he was finally cleared for release, he came home to an empty, unkempt apartment and an email informing him that the _charitable_ woman who took it upon herself to care for his dog after Megan died felt that mere inconvenience was an acceptable reason to pawn him off to a kill shelter. That she couldn't be bothered to even attempt finding Kubrick a suitable home - which wouldn't have been that difficult to do - was just one last nail in the coffin for whatever might have been left of Adam's humanity.
> 
> A lethargic apathy followed. He deleted emails without reading them. Ignored the phone and the door. The infolink was a little harder to ignore, but he found a way to do that too. He went through the motions of things he'd done before the accident, trying to fall back into old habits in the hope that at least one would have meaning again. He took his pills. Watched baseball. Used cereal as a substitute for a meal more often than he probably should have. Jerked off.
> 
> The first time he successfully finished was about the worst of his low points. It was a pretty uneventful climax considering how hard he'd worked to achieve it.
> 
> He'd been staring listlessly up at the geometric patterns of asymmetrical light fixtures on his bedroom ceiling, letting the dim light become an amorphous blur in his vision while he idly palmed himself through his shorts and stroked the insides of his thighs. He'd already spent an obscene amount of time rediscovering his body, memorizing the exact points where synthetic fused with organic, tracing the ugly jagged lines over and over and finally coming to appreciate all the little things about his flesh parts that he'd previously ignored.
> 
> He never realized how delightful nipples could be. One swift flick of his fingertip over the sensitive, peaked flesh sent chills vibrating all the way down to his groin. He experimented with them, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, toying with their pliability, rubbing them so that they stood erect and pinched them until they grew sore. It made him wonder why men's nipples were so often neglected when it sent a shock of arousal unfurling deep in his belly, a distinct twinge of pleasure that seemed to be connected directly to his dick.
> 
> He closed his eyes and snaked his hand into his shorts while clinging to thoughts of being touched by cold hands through latex gloves, of slender needles sinking into his flesh and apathetic, formal doctors walking in on him while he pleasured himself. Soon he was wrestling his undershorts down his thighs, stroking his thickening cock and desperately fucking up into his hand as he chased his orgasm down the rabbit hole, finally spilling his climax onto his stomach with a choked grunt.
> 
> Then came the dreaded adrenaline crash that immediately followed the spike of endorphins. For some reason, it had always been an unreasonably hard comedown for him. It would start in before he was even done riding out the aftershocks - that dark, seeping shadow of ennui that set in immediately afterwards, even as his cock still pulsed in his hand. It never lasted long, but it was a miserable five minutes of crippling melancholy that seemed a pretty steep price to pay for a mere five seconds of ecstasy. He often found himself wondering if it was really worth it.
> 
> When he'd finally regained his breath, he cracked his eyes open and blearily stared down at his fingers still loosely wrapped around his softening cock. He'd spilled a little over his hand, the thick white fluid contrasting dramatically with the sleek black of the synthetic material, and all he could think about was how he couldn't _feel_ it, couldn't feel its warmth or its viscosity, only a vague, undefinable sensation sending signals back to his brain that there was something there that shouldn't be. The pressure and temperature sensors could only yield so much as far as sensation. It made the semen pooling around his navel feel like it was searing a hole into his flesh by contrast, and he immediately snapped into action, frantically wiping himself off with his discarded briefs before hurtling himself out of bed and stumbling for the bathroom. He felt empty, cold, ruined, like he needed a shower just to feel human again.
> 
> Then he caught himself in the mirror - stopped and looked, _really looked_ for the first time - and almost didn't recognize the person staring back at him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his own reflection. His beard was shaggy and untrimmed, his hair limp and a little too long. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face was gaunter than usual.
> 
> The image probably wouldn't have been so shocking if he hadn't still expected the old Adam to look back at him, lean muscles shifting under flushed skin. Instead he was just a conglomeration of black synthetic material and bolts, hardened artificial limbs sculpted to emulate the way he used to be shaped. His eyes locked onto the cables surfacing above his flesh just parallel to his sternomastoid muscles, and he traced one of them with a single finger, flinching against his own touch even though it didn't hurt. It _looked_ painful...grotesque. He didn't even know what purpose they served, what they were supposed to be connecting, why the cables couldn't have just been installed entirely inside him, out of sight.
> 
> Something about it seemed almost obscene to him, especially seeing it all objectively for the first time. Almost like he'd been haphazardly welded together, an impostor, a cheap imitation of the real thing. He knew his augmentations were the best on the market, unarguably elite, but he felt far from it. He felt more like some kid's action figure; hard, plastic limbs ready to manipulate into a dramatic pose. He missed being all organic, he missed...being _soft_.
> 
> Before he could even register the emotions attached to the action, his hand was tightening, spring-loaded nerves triggering his cybernetic limb without a conscious thought as he drew his arm back and sent his fist hurtling into the glass. He watched his reflection break up as the spiderweb extended out from under his knuckles, too emotionally drained to even marvel at the power behind the new hardware. Useless. A useless gesture. It solved nothing.
> 
> Perhaps it would have been more gratifying if he could still bleed.

Those months seem incredibly trivial now. It pales in comparison to how powerless he feels after being in that vault, suffocating and claustrophobic and buried underground. It might as well have been his grave. Technically...maybe it already was.

He feels dizzy and a little nauseous, drowsy with fatigue. He's _cold_. It's more than just the unforgiving weather - this is a chill emanating from within his very bones. He's shivering, and as hard as he tries, he can't still the perpetual tremble in his chest. There's even a phantom chill in his artificial limbs, and just knowing there's not a single thing he can do to alleviate it only exacerbates this feeling of powerlessness.

He wants nothing more than to lie down, to curl in on himself and sleep. He recognizes the typical reaction to trauma, the brain's defense mechanism of shutting down to protect itself.

He'd been so lethargic on his way to the train station, barely able to keep his feet moving under him, and when Koller's voice came through his infolink, cheery and oblivious to the horrors Jensen had just seen, it was something of a welcome relief. He hadn't realized how much he _needed someone_ until that moment.

It really felt good, just being in his presence. Even easing back into the chair invoked some ironic comfort he didn't know was possible. Afterwards, he had every intention of going straight home and passing out for a while, but something made him reconsider, made him turn back. Perhaps it was the groggy vestiges of the procedure making him feel particularly vulnerable, or maybe it was Koller's dismissive attitude of Rucker's death - equating it to a mere convenience - that didn't sit well with him, but Adam couldn't bring himself to leave just yet.

He hadn't expected to walk back inside to see Koller emerged from his hole for once, completely stripped bare of the playfulness and mirth he'd exhibited just moments before. Something about it made Adam feel like he was intruding on something private, that perhaps he should just quietly slip back out and let Koller deal with things on his own terms.

It's too much of a disheartening shock, seeing him so listless among the ruins of his shop. He's usually fidgety, stumbling around aimlessly, muttering incoherently to himself while he multitasks. Right now, he reminds Adam of a plant left in the shade too long, wilted and struggling just to stay upright.

He's such an accurate reflection of how Adam feels that it causes some unfamiliar sensation to tug within his chest, and then he's on autopilot again - not even registering the emotions attached to the action - he's just wrapping his arms around him if only to quiet the trembling within his own chest. He doesn't care that it's such an uncharacteristic gesture coming from him that Koller seems positively _startled_ by it. 

"I really don't wanna sleep," Koller mutters, and he suddenly squirms and tugs away as though the physical contact has overwhelmed him to the point of discomfort.

Adam's initial instinct is to tighten his arms around him, to clamp him against his chest because _god_ , _he needs this_ , but he graciously lets go instead. Koller pointedly avoids looking at him, and there's a subtle flush coloring his cheeks. _Demure_ is an unusual color on him, and Adam can't decide whether he finds it endearing or troubling.

"Is it because of the nightmares?"

At this, Koller's head abruptly snaps up. "What would you know about that?"

 _Fuck_. Adam doesn't want to give away that he's been reading his emails. There's that almost unrecognizable gnaw of shame - something he hasn't felt in _years_ , really - at the fact that it's only occurring to him just now that he really shouldn't have been snooping in the first place, that it was an incredibly invasive and shitty thing for him to have done at all. He's become so comfortable with isolating himself that he's forgotten where to draw the line between gathering intel and maintaining respectful personal boundaries.

He gives a tight smile and retracts his lenses. He at least wants Koller to see his eyes. "I get them too," he shrugs.

It isn't a complete lie, at least. Still, there's a tangible ugliness churning inside him, regretful shame that he omitted the truth to save face.

Koller frowns, a shadow flickering across his face as though the very concept of sleep troubles him. What Adam doesn't know is that the last time he attempted it, he'd gotten a solid two hours before waking up drenched in a cold sweat and in excruciating pain, unable to even remember what he'd been dreaming about, only the vague recollection that it was _really bad_. It had taken a full half hour of restlessly tossing around to shake the last remnants of dream-pain from his body, and by then he was shivering and uncomfortable from the damp cold provided by a sweat-soaked blanket. He'd pretty much given up on sleep.

"Too much work to do anyway," Koller says, moving away and ducking under the toppled shelves blocking his office.

Adam lithely follows, but at a respectful distance. Whatever surrender and pliability that was there just moments before has given way to a robotic stoicism, like he's trying to protect himself by shutting himself off. This is so unlike Koller, to be avoidant like this. He's always so unintentionally flirtatious, fleeting touches that never quit, always so oblivious to the suggestive playfulness of his behavior, like he never quite learned how to properly socialize. But now it's like a barrier has gone up around him, a palpable impression of defensiveness. Most concerning is that his gait is a little off, he's stepping gingerly, moving as though his very clothes are hurting him. He wasn't like that the last time Adam saw him.

"If you need help, you could just ask," Adam offers.

Koller sweeps aside the scattered books on the floor with an impatient foot, then circles around his desk, pausing to snatch a surprisingly intact bottle of Akuma Shochu from beneath a collapsed bookcase. He twists the cap off and sniffs at it, then pours a generous amount into a coffee cup and sips at it as he begins tapping at his computer with pronounced agitation.

"Not sure there's much you can do," he says absently. "My shipping and receiving guy has been missing for a couple of days. His permits expired, I think he got shipped off to Golem. I have a lot of invoicing to do."

Adam winces, distinctly recalling the man with the self-inflicted hole in his head at the end of the tunnel leading out of the lab.

"...Kamil, wasn't it?" Adam says, and Koller stiffens at his tone, that almost condescending tenderness one uses when they're about to deliver devastating news.

Koller knows that tone well. He distinctly remembers the first time he heard it as a child, when the doctor explained to him and his mother that they'd have to amputate his arms.

He downs the liquor, then slowly lowers his cup. "You've heard something," he deadpans. It isn't a question. More like a declaration said aloud to steel himself for the news.

"I can call in a favor and have someone come by to dispose of the body - "

Adam hears the shatter of the coffee cup against the wall before he even registers that it's been hurled across the room in frustration. He falls respectfully silent, realizes he probably could have delivered the news a little more gently, or perhaps not at all. It was something that could have waited until Koller was in a more suitable disposition to cope with it.

And then there's that strange pull of affection again, compelling him to circle around the desk and gingerly take Koller by the shoulders, steadying him with the least invasive touches he can manage. He avoids pulling him into his arms again. He's perceptive of how anything constrictive at the moment would cause him extreme discomfort. The way he tenses his muscles and contorts his body to avoid contact reminds Adam of a skittish cat that doesn't want to be picked up.

Instead Adam just offers his proximity, reaches past him to pluck a tissue from the box on the desk. He holds it out, but when Koller doesn't move to take it, he cautiously begins dabbing it under his eyes and across his cheekbones with hesitant gestures as he waits to be told to stop. Koller stiffens a little at the contact, but doesn't draw away. He seems more startled at the realization that he's been crying but was too distracted to notice. He seems on the verge of pushing Adam's hand away, but instead he closes his eyes and just turns his face up to it, lets it happen.

"You should really make your workshop entrance a little less conspicuous," Adam says after a long silence.

Koller's eyes snap open, and he glances over his shoulder, following the direction of Adam's gaze to the grooves worn into the wall paneling from the retractable shelves. Something akin to laughter bubbles up in his chest, but it's choked off before it can escape. He doesn't even have the strength for petty amusement right now.

"Guess it's a good thing Otar's goons are a bunch of potatoes," he says.

"Guess it's a good thing he's not going to be a problem anymore," Adam says softly. "...Or Vano."

Koller stills, and his fingers absently drift up to still Adam's hand dabbing at his face. "What did you do?" he whispers.

 _I drugged everyone in the casino and shot Otar and his lapdog in the head while they were unconscious_ seems a little uncouth at the moment, so Adam answers cryptically, "I made him a deal."

Which isn't a lie, either. He _had_ made a deal with Otar. Got the guy to trust him, made him feel comfortable enough to give him the calibrator willingly.

Right before he put a hole in the bastard's head with his own revolver.

Koller takes a measured breath, something akin to horror flashing through his eyes, concerned and mildly frantic. "Deals with the Dvali, Jensen...I hope you know what you're into. They don't exactly speak the language of a fair bargain." His expression sours as he says it, as though it conjures up particularly unpalatable memories.

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Adam says. It's more an expression of tragic empathy than it is an accusation. "Koller...this deal you have with Radich. Is there anything I need to know? I know that your... _house call_ was with him."

Koller's face pales, he seems about to be sick and sways a little on the spot so that Adam instinctively throws an arm out to steady him.

"How did you find out?" he gasps, a desperate hand clutching feebly at Adam's shoulder for support. "Jensen, just you knowing as much as you do endangers us both. This...this isn't good..."

His knees buckle under him, the collective trauma is too much. Perhaps if he hadn't been so exhausted, he might have handled it better, but it's too much to swallow all at once. He sags in Adam's polite grip, then makes some frail little sound, a meek whimper of protest as Adam impulsively hoists him over his shoulder. The air wheezes out of him at being jostled, and he struggles to find his voice amid being disoriented.

"Jensen, _don't_ ," he warns, attempting to harden his voice into something resembling assertiveness. It's not so effective with the loss of equilibrium from being upended so suddenly, unable to draw breath enough to speak in the awkward position. "I'm serious, Jensen. Put me down."

"You're not doing yourself any favors, kid," he says, tugging at the book that retracts the shelves concealing the elevator. He punches impatiently at the button with his thumb, clamping his arm around Koller's waist when he tries to wriggle free. "You're not much use when you're this much of a wreck."

Koller stops struggling and huffs out some petulant sound of disbelief as though he sees right through Adam's transparent posturing. As though he's a little impatient with it, even. Offended that Adam's still playing off this act that it's about necessity, and not about legitimately _giving a shit_.

"You're so full of shit, Jensen," he snaps.

Adam bristles a little at his tone - it sounds genuinely disdainful, sharp and acidic. His fingers twitch against Koller's waist, a mechanical little gesture that might almost be considered a caress. Koller only scoffs at him and keeps his muscles tensed - he doesn't struggle, but he doesn't make it any easier for him either.

He rears back up the moment he's dumped onto the fold-out bed in his workshop, but another wave of fatigue disorients him and he gives up on the gesture halfway through. He wants to say something cutting, but he doesn't even have the energy for that. Instead, he casually eases back against the headrest in defeated concession, watching Adam closely through heavy-lidded eyes. 

"Not like there's any point in fighting you," he mutters.

Adam flinches, gestures awkwardly for a moment as though he's struggling with what to do, then impulsively turns and drags Koller's desk chair to the bedside and sits down. Koller puzzles at his expression - it's unfamiliar, softens the angles of his face in a way that's almost troubling, and after a nervous few seconds of silence, Koller finally realizes it's because Adam looks genuinely _wounded_.

"It was never my intention to make you feel threatened, Koller. You...told me once that I scare the shit out of you. I don't want it to be like that. I don't want to think that you have any reason to believe you're not safe around me. I'm not... _comfortable_ with that."

Koller's breath hitches, an uncomfortable clench in his chest as the heat rises in his cheeks. 

 _No offense, Jensen, you scare the shit out of me. Otar, he scares the shit out of me. But Radich - Radich is worse than both of you put together_.

 _Worse than both of you put together_. Christ, did he really say that?

There's a nauseating twist in his gut, the imploding feeling of regret. It had seemed like a trite thing to say at the time, a harmless joke maybe, but he'd designated Adam as a threat equivalent to a couple of criminals and extortionists, to a...a _rapist_. The panic begins clawing its way up his throat, he doesn't want to think about it so he shoves it down, focuses a little too intently on picking at a fuzzball on his worn blanket.

In retrospect, he can't even remember why it occurred to him to say such a thing. He may have said it in irony, but now it makes him feel contemptible and petty. It was an absurd thing to say, and the very notion that he may have legitimately hurt Adam by it makes it even worse. Perhaps he'd assumed Adam was boorish enough to have been flattered to hear it, which is considerably more insulting, now that he thinks about it. He can't think of an appropriate consolation that wouldn't sound incredibly banal and disingenuous.

"It's good to see your eyes for once," he says instead. His voice is meek, barely above a whisper, it sounds like he's surrendering to something.

He can't bring himself to look Adam directly in the face, but he sees him frowning in the periphery of his vision - always frowning, he rarely ever sees him without his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched - and then Adam nods curtly before rising from his seat. As though he'd expected nothing more from Koller than a deplorably feeble response to something so serious, and truth be told, it stings a little. Something about his body language makes it clear that he feels he's long overstayed his welcome.

"Don't hesitate to contact my infolink if there's a problem," he says brusquely. The amber mirrors of his shades slide back over his eyes.

Hard to believe such a small gesture could have such an impact, but it does. Koller feels the knots tighten in the concavity beneath his rib cage as Adam turns to leave, like his guts have bottomed out and his heart is being wrung for all it's worth. He almost whimpers, but he chokes it back. He wants to think Adam doesn't understand the weight behind this small gesture - a little habit he has when he's shutting out the world and sealing off his emotions - but Adam _does_ understand, and Koller knows he does. 

" _Don't go_ ," he breathes. It's so silent, he's not sure he actually said it aloud, but Adam stops mid-pivot. Turns his head just slightly to give him a glimpse of his profile, and for once, his jaw isn't clenched. 

No point in backpedaling. He composes himself, takes the closest thing to a satisfying breath as he can manage in an attempt to steady his voice. "Stay with me," he says. It's a little better. There's a noticeable tremor there, but his tone is resolute and sober. 

Adam hesitates, like he isn't entirely convinced that Koller is asking for any reason other than guilt or some warped sense of obligation.

"Not like I really feel safe enough to close my eyes when I'm alone anyway," he says with a dismissive shrug. He feels like he should say more to make his case, like he needs to be more convincing, but he knows if he does, he'll start rambling and make a fool of himself. 

It's almost imperceptible - _almost_ \- but Adam inhales sharply, a small gasp that might as well have sucked the air out of the room. He keeps his shades in place, but turns back and calmly reclaims his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by WHAT THE FUCK DOES ADAM DO IF HE GETS AN ITCH
> 
> Also how does Adam jerk off, that can't be comfortable
> 
> Questions like these keep me up at night
> 
> btw THANK YOU EVERYONE for your wonderful comments, holy crap this fandom leaves the best comments and you guys are my life <3 <3


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